


not bad at all

by stupteid



Category: Breaking Bad
Genre: Age Difference, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-10-10 03:03:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17417822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stupteid/pseuds/stupteid
Summary: “I’ll cut the crap here, alright? I’ve always gone as long as I did cause I’ve always had men. Good men. And Walt fucked that up. He fucked you up. Now that he’s in custody, we can make something of that together. You could be my guy.”Mike's still alive to rescue Jesse from the Nazis.





	not bad at all

**Author's Note:**

  * For [What_we_are](https://archiveofourown.org/users/What_we_are/gifts).



Old tires sent orange dust swelling behind them in the New Mexico heat. Mike’s got his hands— knuckles cracked and busted— on the wheel at two and ten like some kid wet behind the ears, but he doesn’t know what he’d do with them otherwise. Jesse’s slumped in the passenger seat, sleeping like the dead and looking absolutely ravaged; the wear and tear from the last six months visible in that scrunched up forehead. The familiar smell of acrid chemical fumes and sweat and fucking exhaustion came off his overworked body in waves. Mike’s grip tightens, wrinkles deepening on the hard worn leather, seeing Jesse like that.

The rattling of the car’s rusty metal frame accompanies the clattering of spare ammunition against metal, the heavy thump of the scope rifle accentuating bumps on the dirt road. The sounds easily bring him back to half an hour ago: Jack’s club house surrounded by the quick rapid fire of semi-automatics and steady, calculated pistol shots.

He’d finally capped the last of those Nazi fucks when he’d heard chains clinking alongside weak, weary footsteps approaching the entrance. He keeps his grip on the pistol, being careful after decades of built up distrust. Mike just waits, letting whatever danger come to him, tracking the sound until a familiar silhouette showed up to the door.

“Jesse,” the name falls out of his lips, pulled out of his throat from the shock of seeing the kid like that, “Jesus.”

Jesse’s glassy eyes register a glint of recognition and a quick tongue flicks to moisten dry, cracked lips. “Mike,” he croaks, his voice hoarse and soft from underuse. 

Mike’s seen a lot of things as a beat cop: hostages, trauma, shock, whatever the fuck, and even after years of harbouring that pent up shit, he still doesn’t know what to say. He’d fucked up with his own son, after all. Shit like “Chin up, soldier,” and “Man up, son,” and yadda-yadda-yadda. But the kid staggers towards him, those baby blues going through a range of emotion before ending up teary, wet and glistening. His face collapses into Mike’s chest, split knuckles white as they hold onto the lapels of his zip up overcoat. Jesse’s hands, so worn and swollen against slender wrists, made him look like a goddamn puppy that’s yet to grow into its paws. Mike wraps his arms around the kid instinctively, a hand cradling the shuddering, round skull of his head as Jesse sobs into the fabric, full of desperate relief.

He makes the decision to take Jesse with him then. To go off grid and hightail it out of the fucking cesspool Walt made of Albuquerque. 

They make a stop at a covered well in the far reaches of desert where Mike tosses anything to do with what went down at Jack’s hideout. Jesse takes a piss beside the broken bones of a house long lost, metal beams jutting up from beneath the earth just a yard away. The splash of a final pistol reverbs from the black waters and Jesse comes up to him, scratching at the back of his head, “You really wanna book it outta here? You, and uh— and me?” 

“Yes, as a matter of fact,” Mike answers patiently, having had answered this question one too many times. He knows Jesse thinks he owes him or something even though he’s gotten several million for his troubles, all crisp twenties Jack’s gang stole from Walt. They’d stuffed them inside his bug-out bag and wherever the hell else they could cram it. Jesse’d told him where they’d stashed them, crossing over Todd’s body to get to it- his lips blue, and bruises the shape of chain links across his throat and Mike doesn’t ask any questions. “Now, if you ask me again, I’ll leave you on the side of the road, how about that?” 

It’s another stop to the gas station and Jesse gets as much beer as he could carry, half as many packs of cigarettes, and a bag of Funyuns for good measure. Mike eyeballs that distastefully and grabs some provisions himself, like actual food.

Jesse tosses a butt to the floor as they get themselves back in the car. The kid’s barely just sat down when he’s already cracking open a beer. Mike stops himself from parental chastising and tosses two sandwiches onto Jesse’s lap instead.“Eat up— long drive ahead,” he instructs, “I’ll get something warm for you later.” 

Fingers barely peeking out from his sleeve, Jesse puts a hand on it as if Mike would take it back from him. “Thanks,” he says, uncertainty in every crevice of his voice. He looks troubled and unsure of himself as he takes a bite, looking for all the world like a stray animal that’s been kept in a cage for too long. 

Jesse takes a breath after a moment, taking some effort to eject the question on his tongue. It’s too easy to pinpoint what Jesse’s still troubled about, messed up by all the shit thrown his way. Before Jesse can ask why Mike’s taking it on himself to be bringing Jesse around with him again, he interjects.

“Look kid, I can carry you till state police doesn’t have the jurisdiction to reach us. Then, and only then, you’re free to diddle-daddle on your own. But,” he emphasizes with raised eyebrows, looking pointedly at Jesse, “I’ll cut the crap here, alright? I’ve always gone as long as I did cause I’ve always had men. Good men. And Walt fucked that up. He fucked you up. Now that he’s in custody, we can make something of that together. You could be my guy.”

Jesse looks at him, eyebrows scrunched while he processes this. “S-so what, like… you mean like how Victor was your guy?” 

“Mmm, not so much considering he’s dead,” Mike shrugs. “Victor was a follower. You’re a leader, Jesse.” 

Jesse stills, trying to follow, concern lining on his forehead. “I’m not a… Look, I’m not cooking—.”

“Who said anything about cooking?”

“Well, I’m not a leader or whatever either.”

“Whatever you say,” Mike replies casually. 

Jesse still looks troubled, taking gulping swigs off his beer. It’s a long moment until he speaks again, “They really got him then, huh.” Mike glances at the kid, couldn’t read what emotion he’d said that in and it’s jarring to see Jesse look so vulnerable and smaller than he was all of a sudden.

Mike answers a minute later, contemplating Jesse’s reaction.“Yep. Better than what he deserves, really.” 

Jesse goes quiet afterwards with the occasional sound of beer cans cracking open and the soft crinkle of plastic bags. It’s not long after when they get to a motel and Jesse wobbles a bit with the bags, unsteady on his feet getting to the door. 

“You okay there, kid?” Mike moves to steady him, but Jesse waves him away.

“Yeah— yeah, thanks.” There’s alcohol on his breath and a flush at the back of his neck all the way under his shirt.

——————

Jesse bounces into the washroom and has the water running in seconds. Mike kicks back comfortably on the bed, flicking on the remote. He’s barely minutes into a nature documentary, one that Jesse’d probably like, when the kid himself pops his head out of the doorway. “Hey, uh, got any shaving things on you?”

“Clipper’s in the bag.” Mike takes a glance at him. Jesse’s still swaying a bit, leaning on the door with all his drunken weight. “Gonna need some help?”

“Uh, no— I’m good—,” Jesse’s head starts retreating, but Mike makes to get up anyway, bad knees pulling a groan out of him.

“You really wanna last another day like that?” Mike leans on the entrance, gear in hand. 

Jesse’s sitting on the toilet cover, just in his pants and the red flush on his neck is still there, speckling down his neck and alongside the freckles on his shoulders. The furrow in his brow is petulant, not wanting to owe Mike anything else, he figures, but Jesse sighs in resignation. “Yeah, yeah, ok— just uh— just get it over with, alright?” 

Mike takes a moment to regard his ashy brown locks; they were the longest he’d ever seen on him, damp and dark from the shower. “You wanna get it all off or what?”

“Wha— uhm, yea, all of it’s fine, yeah.” Mike notes Jesse’s ears are flushed as well when he brings himself closer. Jesse’s hair falls into a plastic bag at every swish of the clippers. The familiar roundness of his skull is exposed from underneath with every stroke. Mike can see the shuddering clench of his eyelids, lashes flickering minutely at his every movement. 

Working on his head, Mike’s close enough to see little details he’s never bothered to notice before, the little whorl of his hair and the taut, fragile skin of his back as he slouches. It’s oddly childish, reminding him of Kaylee and her little head. Especially when Jesse’s head keeps slumping forward kind of like how his own grandkid power naps. Mike taps under Jesse’s chin every time, “Hey, no sleeping on me now.” 

Jesse groans groggily, head swaying back up again, still tipsy. “I bet in your past life, you’d’ve been like— a tortoise or something. ”

“What, you think I’m slow?”

“Yeah, I mean, would it kill you to move a little faster?” 

“What if it did?” 

Jesse blinks wide, all attention directed at him in a mix of disbelief and sudden concern. He stutters, “Yo, like— for real? 

“Ach, shaddup.” 

A stray drip of water runs down Jesse’s neck, down the side of his spine, tracking through the sugarskull tattoo between his shoulder blades. Mike wipes it off with his hand, sweeping across the ink for a bit longer than he’d intended. The muscle under it feels tense and nervous and he clasps a hand at the side of Jesse’s neck reassuringly. A fragile pulse quickens and thrums against his fingers. He’s close enough to see it jump under the skin. 

He keeps his hands gentle, guiding Jesse’s head further back to start on the coarse hairs of his beard. With his throat bared and vulnerable, the skin tightens transparent, softer. Mike is suddenly aware of how much trust Jesse’s putting on him. It reminds him of the time Jesse has an arm around him, yelling at Fring’s doctor at the top of his lungs, all agitated and frantic, the heat of his bony body radiating onto his side.

The kid’s skin burns hotter as Mike brushes off the last pieces from the ridges of his slender neck. There’s a soft gasp from Jesse and when Mike checks his face to see what was wrong, Jesse’s brilliant blues meets his so suddenly, it was like being shot. The air around them becomes tangible, thick and dizzying, the quick thump of Jesse’s pulse turning heavy against his hand. His pupils are blown out, blue green irises just thin slivers around salacious intrigue. 

“You, uh—,” the kid’s eyes flick down to Mike’s dick, and wets his dry lips with a bite to his lower lip. Mike zeros in on the red-pink of his mouth, glistening prettily against too-white teeth. “Can I— I mean— Do you…?” Jesse’s voice is deeper, thicker than it usually was. 

“Jesse—,” he grits out. He’s gotten so tense, all muscles riled up, a hand clenched in a tight grip against the sink like it was a lifeline. “What are you—,” he halters, realizing Jesse’s mouth is already so close, the hot breathy huffs through the fabric, hands grazing at his dick as Jesse goes for his fly. Mike grabs his jaw, thumb and index fingers sinking into each cheek. “Wait—,” he breathes, pushing Jesse away like that. The metal on his ring finger glints at the movement. 

The kid holds his forearm stubbornly, pulling Mike back toward him, “Don’t— Just let me—.” 

Mike can feel Jesse’s jaw opening as he speaks, drawing his thumb towards the corner of Jesse’s mouth. 

“Just lemme give this to you, alright?” Jesse continues, face dazed and heavy-lidded. Mike wants to say Jesse doesn’t need to give him anything, doesn’t owe him anything, just needs to sit the fuck down and let Mike take care of him. 

“Kid— kid,” His hands are on the kid’s face, trying to think of some fatherly phrase and failing. “Look, who owes who doesn’t matter, you listening?” 

“Mike, just—,” the scruff of Jesse’s stubble as he talks tickle against his palms. “Just let me,” he growls, pulling Mike in, nimble fingers at his fly. “I want this.” The kid’s taking him into his hands, bony fingers curled around Mike’s hardening cock. 

Mike grunts, thoughts about pushing him back scattering. “Don’t come crying to me when you’re sober,” he warns. Fingers roaming, he can’t help thumbing Jesse’s top lip back over his incisors as the kid palms over his cock.

“Not drunk,” Jesse claims, voice tinged with victory knowing he’s already won. The opening of his mouth to speak has Mike’s thumb slide into the warm wet of his mouth.

He presses a thumb onto Jesse’s tongue where he feels age old scar tissue near its centre. Curious, he draws it out to look at under the bathroom light. A faint line runs down the middle of Jesse’s tongue, a deeper crack where something must have pierced through the thinner section of the muscle. If he were to take a guess, he’d probably had it some time in high school. 

Mike must have had an eyebrow raised, letting go for Jesse to explain, “Chicks dug it,” the corner of his mouth curling up in a flirtatious smirk. 

The kid’s grip on Mike’s dick tightens a little as he brings it towards himself— thick and heavy against his cheek and licks a wet stripe on the underside. Mike lurches forward to stabilize himself on the wall in front of him, “Fuck, Jesse.”

Jesse’s tongue swirls and flicks around the tip, his lips pressing wet together and Mike groans, putting a hand to the back of Jesse’s head. It was like that had a domino effect and those lips open forward, moaning while sucking him in, a deep vibration.

Mike feels the sliding wetness of Jesse’s uvula for a second before the kid’s throat presses down on him, convulsing and Jesse gags out, but comes back, determined. The clench between his tongue and the roof of his mouth closing gets Mike breathing harsh. The tip pushes against the soft palate of the kid’s throat, getting him to make shameless gulping whimpers. “That’s a good boy, yeah.” 

He can’t help but push himself into Jesse’s mouth, a deep thrust in and slower coming out, a smooth rolling movement. Jesse’s fingers and tongue slide around at the base to make up for what he can’t get into his throat. His free hand was pushed into his pants, working at his own dick while his Adam’s apple juts obscenely as his throat works around Mike’s cock. 

Mike’s grip goes tighter against the back of Jesse’s head, riding his skull harder, faster. Jesse moans, wet noises being punched out of him, deep and filthy. The ridges of Jesse’s mouth drag against the tip of Mike’s dick on the pull out and he pulses onto Jesse’s face, cum catching on debauched lips. 

“Fuck,” Jesse gasps, still jacking at his dick and Mike kneels down stiffly, hand reaching out to replace Jesse’s. It’s slick with precum and the spit that was drooling out of Jesse’s mouth probably reached it too. Mike gets a pace going, grip tight and good by the way Jesse was saying, “Yeah, fuck.” 

Jesse’s hands grasp tight against Mike’s shoulders when he cums, shuddering into Mike’s fist. Mike grunts words of encouragement, “That’s it. That’s good, kid.” 

They clean themselves up in intimate silence, only the faint mumble of a narrator from the television that was still on filling the air. Jesse looks into the mirror to wash up and makes a face, “Ugh, dude. Warn me next time, huh?” 

Mike raises his brows, sitting on the toilet cover taking a breather. “Oh, so there’ll be a next time?”

He can see the flush sprawl across Jesse’s face while he sputters indignantly. “I’m only saying— you know, like— whenever.”

Jesse doesn’t make a point to expand on that, dunking his head in the water from his cupped hands. He wipes a towel over his face quickly and disappears into the motel room just as fast. Mike hears the bed squeaking from, presumably, Jesse throwing his whole weight onto it, followed by a very vocal sigh of bliss. 

Mike doesn’t make a move to follow, giving his legs a bit of time before he’d stand up again. He hears Jesse call out, “Yo, you good in there?” 

Mike’s leg creaks a little as he hoists himself to stand, “Yeah, yeah, hold your horses.” It’s been full of too much stillness and silent waiting in his most recent years. Having some noise around him wouldn’t be bad at all. He walks into the room and the kid is sprawled out across the bed, already fast asleep in well deserved slumber. Mike instinctively tucks him in properly, resting the blanket on top of him. Not bad at all.


End file.
